


Poison

by Modest_K



Series: Astoria [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Astoria Greengrass Dies, Comfort/Angst, Dad Draco, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Next Generation, Theo is actually a homie, oof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29315904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Modest_K/pseuds/Modest_K
Summary: Draco meets Theo for a drink a month after the death of his wife.(Stand Alone sequel to my Astoria drabbles)
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy
Series: Astoria [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2153379
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Poison

“Did you know that if you search the word ‘infection’ in a Thesaurus, one of the top synonyms to come up is ‘poison?’” he asked, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands folded together. It wasn’t entirely clear whether he was addressing the person sat across from him, or the floor.

From the way his eyes clung to the carpet, lost in one particular spot that’d been snagged on something, it was seemingly the latter. 

A hoarse sort of voice echoed around the study, and it took a moment to register that it’d been his own. 

A deeper, smoother voice replied, “I didn’t. But it makes sense. And just so we’re clear, I’m not a therapist.”

“You asked if I wanted to talk about it.”

“I was being polite.”

In any normal circumstance, Draco Malfoy might have laughed at his friend’s lack of sensitivity. In fact, he  _ sort of  _ managed a half-hearted chuckle. All things considered, that was an achievement on Theo’s part, worth galleons, really.  _ I ought to tell him as much. To show him I’m fine enough to joke.  _ Draco opened his mouth: “Well here’s the thing about infection—”  _ Dammit.  _ “—it’s really a misleading word, isn’t it?”  _ Get it together. _

Theo paused, his glass held just before his lips. He cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Draco shrugged. He couldn’t backtrack  _ now.  _ “It’s just— I dunno. An infection sounds so… curable. It’s too light a word.” 

Theo frowned a little scornfully. “Mate—”

“I know, I know,” Draco waved a hand, sitting up to glare properly. “Just… humour me, would you?”

“Draco.”

“ _ Theo. _ ”

Theo huffed, discarding his glass on the table between them and folding his arms. “Go on, then.”

“So ‘infection.’ If you look up the word infection in a dictionary—”

“Why the fuck are you looking up ‘infection’ in a bloody dictionary—?”

“Because I don’t care how many times Scorpius asks, we’re not getting one of those bloody Muggle things with the Googly or whatever,” Draco snapped. Theo snorted.

“It wasn’t the  _ method  _ I was questioning,” he rolled his eyes. 

“ _ Anyway,  _ the whole point I was making is this: why make a word like “infection” sound so trivial, only to list one of its  _ synonyms  _ as ‘poison?’ How  _ isn’t  _ that misleading?” Draco demanded. 

To his surprise, Theo didn’t scoff at him or offer some sarcastic quip. Honestly, Draco wished he  _ had.  _ It would have hurt a lot less than the sad, pity-eyes he got instead. 

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Theo raised his eyebrows. 

“Come off it. You’re giving me that look,” Draco scowled. 

“That’s just my face.”

“It’s not. You’re looking at me like a cat that got kicked.”

“I’m actually not fond of cats, you know that.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “ _ Theo. _ ”

“Well, what the fuck do you want, then?” Theo snapped. “You want me to cut the bullshit?  _ You first. _ ”

Draco wavered a little, eyes searching for that carpet snag he’d been staring at so fervently earlier. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“ _ Come. Off. It. _ ”

“WELL WHAT DO  _ YOU  _ WANT ME TO SAY?” Draco roared, standing so fast that his chair nearly tipped backward. "You want me to say that it's fucking  _ sick  _ of those bastards to have called it an  _ infection?  _ To not have just owned up to what it was?  _ Poison,  _ Theo, it was  _ poison, _ and it  _ took her! _ "

"It was a  _ disease,  _ Draco," Theo said calmly, though his expression was wary. 

"Poison," Draco whispered, anger dissipating. It didn't let up gradually at all— it was like his body and mind lost all energy in just one sweeping moment that left him dizzy. It made his legs tingle and his eyes burn and a beat later he found himself feeling too tired to stand, letting himself instead drop back into the armchair.

"Mate," Theo leaned forward unsurely. He looked like he wanted to help, but Draco wasn't sure what his friend could possibly offer him. Words were nothing. Words were  _ empty.  _

Like “infection.” That wasn’t just empty; it was cruel.

Fuck, he was so dizzy.

"I get why you're concerned," Draco sighed. "I hear how I sound. I know she was sick, and I know the semantics of the healers' word choice doesn't mean shit." He ran a hand through his hair and then down his face, rubbing at his eye. "But what if poison  _ is  _ more accurate? What if… what if it was me?"

Theo's eyebrows drew together in apparent confusion. "What are you on about?"

"What if I poisoned her?" Draco whispered, his words ice. "What if just being  _ with  _ me is what—"  _ It's been a month and I still can't bloody say it. _

"Draco, you didn't poison her," Theo insisted with a deep frown. "It had nothing to do with you."

He sounded like the healers.

What was that phrase Draco's wife had hated so much?  _ There’s something wrong with her blood. _

Merlin, he’d nearly had to hold her back from punching the healer after that. Not that he would have put much effort into doing so. 

"I don't know," Draco let out a short, humourless laugh. It tasted bitter and salty, like a mixed concoction of black coffee and tears. "Wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

"What do you mean?"

Draco kicked at the carpet snag with the tip of his shoe. He felt oddly determined the flatten the stupid thing down. "Nothing."

"Bullshit."

Draco snapped his head up to glare daggers. “I said it’s nothing.”

“Who exactly do you think you ‘poisoned?’” Theo questioned. 

Draco, persistently avoiding eye contact, mumbled something inaudible. 

“Come again?”

“Everyone!” Draco snapped. “Mum, Crabbe, my father— everyone close to me goes away one way or another.”

“That’s not—” 

“Blaise,” Draco spat, finally looking his friend in the face. “Blaise left me too.”

Theo paled, finally caught off guard. Draco relished the rare moments he elicited real emotions from Theodore Nott beyond ironic mirth. “That was different. Blaise left all of us.”

“And he made a real show of it,” Draco added bitterly.

“That’s not on you,” Theo insisted. “Or me. Hell, if Blaise came back now—”

“He won’t.”

“—he’d see that he jumped the gun on leaving. We all turned ourselves around, didn’t we?” Theo finished, ignoring Draco’s cynical interruption.

“Doesn’t matter,” Draco rolled his eyes. “He left, and he had plenty to say on us in the process.”

“That’s not a reflection on  _ you, _ ” Theo sighed. 

“And yet here I am,” the former growled. “I’ve got one friend and almost no family left.”

“That’s a pretty big ‘almost’ though, isn’t it?” Theo asked quietly. 

Once again, Draco’s rage swept away from him swiftly. It seemed to come and go like a wave following the pull of the tides. 

Theo was right, of course. That particular “almost” included his  _ son.  _ His son who had lost a mother just as much as Draco had lost his wife. 

_ “There’s something wrong with her blood.” _

Draco felt sick. 

Maybe it was the scotch, he tried to tell himself. 

It was surely the scotch that made him want to vomit up his stomach and heart so he'd never have to feel so shit again, rather than the flickering image of her still body, frozen and diseased, that plagued his mind.

And then the images didn’t just flicker— they  _ flooded.  _

The gradual paleness that enveloped her skin. The way she’d turn away every time she coughed. The blood-soaked tissues she’d tried to throw out in secret. 

The hospital visits. The bags under her eyes. More coughing. 

The stillness. The cold. 

The last night.  _ Her  _ last night.

“Draco?” His friend’s voice held concern, but he sounded so, so far away.

Draco gripped his armrests. He should have saved her, shouldn't he have? 

He could have poured more money into research. He could have held every healer in St. Mungo's at wand-point and demanded that someone find a working cure. He could have done  _ something  _ more, couldn't he have? 

He could have saved her.

Who was he kidding? He hadn't been able to save his parents either, had he? Not from Azkaban and not from death either. __

He was useless.

He couldn't do anything against a bloody infection. Against the  _ poison. _

A tap at the window shook him from his thoughts. An owl perched just outside the study's window, its grey feathers fluffed from the wind.

Theo started to stand, but Draco beat him to it. "It’s Scor’s. I'll get it."

He tugged open the window and let the grey owl hop inside before accepting the letter. It was addressed to him, despite this being Theo’s study.

Draco opened it a little messily, sort of hastening. Scorpius wasn’t usually one to write. Or was he? It was Scor’s mother who’d always been better at that sort of thing— being there, that is. 

_ Dad, _

_ I was just wondering if you’d be at my next game! I have a bet against Rose (yeah, yeah, the Weasley, I don’t want to hear it) that I’ll catch the snitch before she can score three goals. The moral support would be ace, since Al refuses to take a side.  _

_ Hope you’re working, or doing something other than drinking with Uncle Theo. Tell him he’s a tosser for me, would you? Go see the Lancasters or something, someone who won’t just hand you a scotch just to avoid talking. _

_ I miss her too, you know.  _

Draco faltered; he reread that line maybe a dozen times before forcing himself to keep going.

_ Anyway, I’m late for Potions and I ditched yesterday so I should get going. I know, I know, stop ditching class. Come off it, you were doing worse things your Sixth Year. _

_ Love, _

_ Scorpius _

_ P.S. If you get an Owl from McGonagall about me later today, I swear it was Al’s fault. Bloody Potters, you know? _

Draco smirked despite himself. Their son was remarkable. 

He folded the letter neatly and slipped it into his pocket before turning back to Theo, who watched him curiously. 

“I should go.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

Draco shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe Diagon Alley? I might buy Scor new gloves or something; he has a game coming up.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “Spoil him, why don’t you.”

“He said to tell you you’re a tosser, by the way,” Draco informed him casually. Theo snorted. 

“So you’re definitely going to the game, then?”

Draco started for the fireplace. “Of course.”

“It’s just… you haven’t really gone to  _ any  _ of his games since—” Theo cut himself off this time, in a rare moment of tact.

But Draco was tired of hiding. “Since Astoria.”

The flood of images resumed. Coughing. His wife in a hospital gown. 

“Right,” his friend replied quietly. 

She’d been too weak to lift a  _ blanket.  _

“Well,” Draco shrugged, shaking away the pictures. “Scor got busted for something by McGonagall, and I figure I ought to yell at him in person.” 

It might not have been true. And Theo might have known as much, given the doubt in his eyes and his small smile, but it didn’t matter. 

_ If my sixteen-year-old can function normally, so can I.  _

It was funny, Draco realized as he thought about the letter in his pocket. Scorpius might have had the trademark Malfoy hair and a smirk to rival his father’s, but he cared like Astoria. 

_ “I miss her too, you know.” _

So much like Astoria.


End file.
